


Last-Second Shot

by Catchclaw



Series: 2.1 [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Amendment One, Angst, Basketball, Christian Laettner, Destiel - Freeform, Duke University, Episode: s04e17 It's a Terrible Life, First Time, M/M, North Carolina, Smith/Wesson AU, UNC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-14
Updated: 2012-05-14
Packaged: 2017-11-05 08:57:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/404596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Dean Smith/Sam Wesson story. Digging around Dean's apartment, Sam manages to uncover the only object in the whole place that really means anything to Dean: an old basketball jersey that someone named Cas left behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last-Second Shot

**Author's Note:**

> After bitching about North Carolina's passage of Amendment One this week, and threatening to pepper NC with gay porn, just on principle, a friend challenged me to write some Wincest especially for that occasion. To “honor” NC for its idiocy while incorporating the state’s love of all things basketball, of UNC and Duke, into the tale. And so, I have.

Sam kept wandering off.

That's what got under Dean's skin, at first.

Because here the guy was, in someone else's apartment—someone he didn't even know—and he was just strolling around like it was an interactive museum or something, opening drawers and nudging pictures on the wall and peering at Dean's collection of Robert Ludlum novels.

It was—a little strange.

But Dean wanted to be polite, was trying to be a good host, and so he didn't snap the second Sam nudged that vase on the sideboard out of place, or when his fingers smudged the glass top on the coffee table that Dean knew had just been dusted this morning.

No.

He just gritted his teeth a little and smiled and offered Sam another bottle of water. A chair. A magazine. Heck, anything to keep the nerd from messing up his stuff. From putting any of the pieces out of place.

But Sam kept saying no, politely, kept circling as Dean communed with the laptop, tried to pull information out of it, nicely.

And then Sam wandered over, held the picture out to Dean with a puzzled look on his face. Ok, a more puzzled look than the one he'd been wearing all afternoon.

"Hey," he said. "Are you really named after this guy?"

Dean sighed and snatched the picture back, trying to ignore Sam's smeary fingerprints all over the frame. Looking past his younger self caught behind the glass, a grandfatherly man in a suit beside him. Smiling.

"Yeah," Dean said, giving him the faux smile he saved for difficult clients. "Yep, I am. The one and only Dean of UNC basketball."

Sam chuckled.

"That's weird," he said, dropping into the chair behind Dean. Finally. His gigantic legs kicking into Dean's almost immediately.

Dean cleared his throat and scooted away. "Why is that weird?" he asked, trying to keep it light. "The man was a legend. 36 years in the same job. 2 national titles. 11 Final Four appearances. What better role model could a kid want?"

"Well," Sam said, stretching. "It's just that--you don't strike me as the basketball type."

Dean set the picture down carefully next to his laptop.

"Hmmm?" he said, not wanting to continue the conversation. Making that as passive aggressively clear as possible.

But Sam was oblivious. Kept blathering on.

"I mean," he said, leaning forward until Dean could feel him hovering, like some gigantic parrot on his shoulder. "You're a little short for a point guard, don't you think?"

Dean grimaced. Heard his father in Sam's voice, a little.

"Well," he said, a little too brightly. Stabbing valiantly at the keyboard. "My dad was a big fan, you know? Wanted a little part of that greatness for me, I guess."

He looked back at IT boy, twisting his mouth, reaching for a smile. Coming up a little short. So to speak. "Um," he said. "Can't blame Dad for setting the bar high, can you?"

Sam titled his head. "No," he said. "No, I guess not. But. Kinda unfair to you, huh?"

Dean blinked.

Sam yawned and tipped his chair back.

"I thought you were awesome at research," he said. "What's taking so long?"

Dean gritted his teeth.

"Look, I'm doing my best," he said. "But the damn thing is running slow. I don't know what--"

In a flash, Sam was up and looming the hell over him, reaching down over his arms, fingers flying over the keys.

"Ah," he said almost immediately. "Like I thought. When's the last time you defragged your hard drive?"

Dean tipped his head up, incredulous.

"I don't use this thing for porn!" he said. "This is Sandover property! Gosh, I don't know what they teach you boys down in IT, but—"

Sam sighed. "No, you're not—look, just let me do this, ok? It'll just take a few minutes and then your computer will run like it’s supposed to, all right?"

"Fine," Dean said sternly. "But if you get this thing stuck on some busty Asian beauties site or something, that's on you, son. I'll report you to HR so fast your head will spin."

Sam dropped his head and their eyes met for a second, just long enough for Dean to watch Sam's do a full 180.

"Yeah, ok," he said. "Whatever."

He did something and the screen went blue, went blank, and the computer made an unhappy noise.

"What did you--?!" Dean sputtered.

Sam sighed again and stepped back, just as the screen lit up and the thing started humming to itself.

"It's defragging," Sam said. "Cleaning a bunch of crap out of its memory. Won't take too long."

Dean stared mournfully at the screen as it flashed and chattered and generally looked a lot more productive than he felt, at the moment.

He hated being unproductive.

He looked up and Sam had disappeared. Again.

He saw the light on in the bedroom and that. Was it. That was just it, all right? Enough with the fucking invasion of privacy, enough with Captain Overshare rifling through his life like it was any of his goddamn business.

He stalked over, stuck his head in, pulling up the "I'm disappointed in you" lecture that never failed to get the underlings quaking. Adapted from the one his dad had depended on to make him feel inadequate. A failure to the family name.

The one that started:

"There are certain standards to which we all should aspire. That must be maintained if we are to—"

But the words only got halfway out of his mouth, because Sam was standing in his closet, hands clenched around the only thing, the only object in the whole place that really meant anything to him, when you got right down to it.

Dean took two steps and yanked the jersey out of Sam's hands, the blue devil fluttering, leering between them.

Sam was laughing.

"Dude," he managed. "What the—? Why do you have a Laettner jersey?"

Dean scowled. Held the thing a little too close to his chest. Resisted the urge to bury his head in it. Like he might have done in the past.

"It's nothing," he barked. "Never mind."

Sam was still cackling.

"And who's Cas?" he asked. "Why'd he sign his name on that?"

Dean closed his eyes, tried to take a breath. Get a hold of his temper. Got a flash of Cas wearing the damn thing, parking himself in Dean's lap and laughing, then purring as Dean kissed him, the sound drowning out Gus Johnson's voice, the sounds of the crowd, the buzzers back to back to back.

Then, later: Cas chucking it at Dean's head, giggling, pushing himself back into Dean's arms, saying:

"Now you're everything your father feared. Queer _and_ a Duke fan."

Dean opened his eyes.

Sam was staring at him.

"What?" Dean huffed, turning his back.

He felt Sam's hand on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he said, and his voice was way too gentle. Much too nice. "I didn't mean to stir up bad memories or whatever. I know how that is. To, ah, lose somebody you care about.”

Dean cleared his throat. Tried to unwind his hands from the jersey, getting his fingers caught in the hem.

"Uh huh," he said. "Yeah. It's ok."

Sam squeezed his shoulder.

"You sure?" he said.

Dean tried to laugh, but it came out as this choked shudder that Sam had the decency to ignore.

"Sure," he said, swiveling back, reaching for his control. "So what—?"

And he got a flash of brown eyes and sympathy before IT boy kissed him, curving his mouth kind of just right, down and into Dean's.

Pried the jersey from his fingers and pulled him close. His body was warm, his lips gentle, his hands firm.

Dean took a deep breath.

Then his body remembered what to do, how to let somebody touch him like this, and he opened his mouth. Let his head fall back.

And even then, some part of him tried to talk himself out of what he was doing, what he was feeling. Told himself that he was gonna have to bring this up with HR tomorrow, really no two ways about it, haunting or not, because this was totally not appropriate, was bordering on sexual harassment practically, so maybe he shouldn't be kissing Sam right back, shouldn't be pulling at that god-awful polo shirt and moaning, his fingers reaching for the guy's surprisingly well-maintained core, and wow, he'd have to ask Sam how he managed it, sitting on his ass all day, staying this—

One of Sam's hands had worked its way around his head, the other molded itself to his waist, and Dean found himself smothering, swallowed, surrounded by this guy he'd only met the other day, but damn, his mouth felt amazing, familiar somehow and pretty much perfect.

It reminded him of Cas, for a second, until he squeezed his eyes tighter, tangled his fingers in Sam's hair.

Sam rumbled somewhere in his throat and turned, tugging Dean's body with him. Pushed until Dean fell back onto the bed, Sam scrambling right up after, his tongue sliding over Dean's lips. 

He got his fingers into Dean's open collar and started tugging at the buttons, kissing and pulling together, and it felt so good, so unexpectedly great that Dean didn't even protest as he felt the buttons pop, even though he knew this was one of the monogrammed shirts that Julia or Gretchen or Anna had custom-ordered for him, had given him for his birthday last year, because Sam's hands on his skin, his voice in Dean's mouth made all of that feel fucking insubstantial in comparison, even at $500 a pop.

And then Sam started licking his chest, his throat, his hands palming his ribs, his nipples, his sides, and Dean pretty much stopped thinking about his wardrobe as anything other than shit that was keeping Sam from doing that to all of him and that made his skin buzz and his body shake.

And maybe Sam was feeling the same way, because he sat up and pulled the polo over his head. The light flickered over all of that skin, over everything that Dean wanted, right then, and he seemed to know that, did Sam. Just froze there for a minute, his knees knocking Dean's hips, his eyes glittering, soft and sweet and intimidating between those long, long lashes.

"Um, Sam," Dean stuttered, reaching for him.

Sam smiled and leaned forward until Dean could grab him, until Dean could catch his hips and hold them, hold him steady.

"Yeah," Sam breathed, and damn if Dean wasn't drowning a little, in those eyes.

Sam closed a hand around one of Dean's wrists and dragged, pulled his hand over until Dean had no choice but to curl his fingers around—ok, wow—Sam's cock. Sam rumbled again and rocked into Dean's hand, his head tipped back, his mouth moving in and out of this amazing grin.

And it was so good, Sam's body so hot in his hand, that he could almost overlook the poor quality of the guy's pants, which had to be Gap or Dockers or something, some mass-market horror that in any other circumstance, Dean wouldn't be caught dead touching but right now, it so did not matter, even though the zipper was kind of cheap and got stuck as Dean was trying to open it, and it kind of took both of them yanking to get Sam's cock in his hands but it was totally, totally worth it.

Sam shoved the damn things over his hips, let Dean hang onto his cock. Dean watched Sam's face as he worked, jerking him hard and fast just to see Sam's eyes roll back, his mouth a fucking black hole, his cheeks flushed and good lord, he was beautiful, his body rolling under Dean's hands, pleasure pouring off of him in waves.

Dean shuddered.

Sam looked down, met his eyes again. Turned up his lips.

His body kind of wavered and he slunk back to Dean's mouth. Kissed him again. Frantic, this time. Heavy and a little—

Possessive.

And, god, did it feel good to be owned, again.

So he let Sam take over.

Let him drive.

Until he found himself naked, stretched out on his 500-count cotton sheets with Sam's long fingers working what felt like miles of lube into him, that tongue sliding over his back, whispering something Dean couldn't hear into his skin.

Dean thrashed under that, under him, shivering, as Sam kept scissoring and soothing until, finally, god, he growled and pulled away, pulled out, and then came back to Dean full force. Worked his way in, one hand on Dean's hip, the other stroking his neck.

"Yeah," he said, his voice cutting through Dean's moans. "Yeah, like that, just let me—"

"Fuck this," Dean groaned, and pushed back, pulled Sam all the way in. Sam shouted, shoved, and they started working each other way too fast, faster than Dean could really stand because, fuck, it had been so long.

He tried not to think, tried to stay focused on Sam, his voice and his body, but Cas kept slipping through his mind, standing in the doorway to the bedroom, sad and angry and disappointed. In him.

"You have to decide,” Cas had said then. "Are you living for your father? Or for yourself?"

"For you," Dean had tried to say, then, but it had gotten caught in his throat somehow.

Cas had sighed, then. "When you know that," he'd said. "Come find me."

Dean opened his eyes, forced himself to be where he was, right then, to feel the weight of Sam's body folded over his, hips stuttering, hand slipping under and getting a grip on Dean's cock, and that was pretty much it, for Dean, being touched like that as Sam threatened to fuck them both right through the mattress, murmuring and sighing in Dean’s ear.

And when he came, let himself fall apart, with Sam: he had a moment of clarity.

There was another life out there for him. A life that was all his.

And maybe this Sam kid was gonna help him find it.

**

"So," Sam said, after. Running his fingers over Dean's face.

"So," Dean said. Turning his cheek so Sam's fingers would find his throat. His neck.

"How long you been a closet Duke fan?"

Dean snorted.

"Ever since I was a kid. Since '92, at least. A last-second shot like Laettner's? C'mon. Stuff of legend."

"Hmm," Sam said, stroking Dean's jaw. "Your dad ever know?"

"No," Dean said, opening his eyes. Reaching for Sam's face. "Never."

"Huh," Sam said. "I guess sometimes you're more than just your name, huh?"

"Yeah,” Dean said into Sam's mouth. "Sometimes."


End file.
